“I do!” snapped the boy.
Lon bent toward him, and lowered his voice. “Sam, a feller was tellin’ me last night about a herd that’s been feedin’ in close—right back of old Bill Marlow’s barn—big buck and three-four more. Old orchard in there, you know. And that’s so nigh to town most folks won’t look for ’em there. But there they be—or there they were as late as yesterday, anyhow. And, by gum! if I was you, I’d scout out that way on the chance—that is, if your mother says it’s all right,” he added hastily.
In spite of himself, Sam’s ambition was fired. A shot at a deer! That would be worth while.
“You—you’re certain they were there yesterday?” he asked.
“Bill Marlow told me himself. And you can be sure of one thing—he didn’t tell many other folks. Bill ain’t no gossip.”
Sam nodded. He knew something of Mr. Marlow’s habit of taciturnity. Doubter though he might be, the prospect was brightening. He had heard old hunters tell stories of cases in which deer had been killed almost in the outskirts of the village, while sportsmen ranging farther afield had been rewarded with sight of neither buck nor doe.
“Well, I suppose I might as well have a look,” he said not too graciously.
“Of course you might!”
Sam took a step toward the house. “Of course, with my luck——”
“Oh, you never can tell,” Lon reminded him.